


the blush of winter

by heavenlymoonbeam (vilupe)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Castiel, College Student Castiel, College Student Dean, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Pining, winter fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vilupe/pseuds/heavenlymoonbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean slips into the dimmed studio, dodging pieces and ducking behind tables and stools. He is focused on the single bright point in the large room. A series of lights have been set up to create deep contrasts along an assembled display of what looks like meaningless junk to Dean, but would probably end up being lauded as a deep exploration of the artist’s psyche during critiques. Dean snorts at the thought. Not that he doesn’t think Cas could be dark and mysterious, but the whole deep, misunderstood artist thing loses its effect when he’s seen the guy wandering the communal kitchen in bee pajamas.</p><p>*<br/>In which Castiel is an artist and an actual mess of a human being, and Dean wants to set hated tan parkas on fire with his mind but settles for aggressively looking out for his friend instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the blush of winter

Dean slips into the dimmed studio, dodging pieces and ducking behind tables and stools. He is focused on the single bright point in the large room. A series of lights have been set up to create deep contrasts along an assembled display of what looks like meaningless junk to Dean, but would probably end up being lauded as a deep exploration of the artist’s psyche during critiques. Dean snorts at the thought. Not that he doesn’t think Cas could be dark and mysterious, but the whole deep, misunderstood artist thing loses its effect when he’s seen the guy wandering the communal kitchen in bee pajamas. 

In front of a window sits Cas. A pale figure in paint splattered pink against a giant easel that is a bright bloom of gorgeous colors. If Dean had any talent for art or photography himself, he would take a picture of the image Cas presents. Being that Dean’s aesthetic capabilities are limited to cars, food, and engineering, he can only focus on the glazed, vacant look to Cas’s face as he stares into space. His hands are limply resting by his side, and Dean would think that the he has spent the day like this if he didn’t have evidence to the contrary.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says as he approaches his friend. He shoves his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from doing something asinine like reaching out and waving his arms and in front of Cas’s face. “Are you discovering the answers to the universe or something? What’s up?”

The sound of his voice seems to startle Cas, making him grateful that he hadn’t invaded the dudes personal space just seconds before. Cas’s fingers twitch to grasp the stool he’s sitting on as he turns towards Dean. Facing away from the canvas, his face is lit up by the stream of steadily dimming natural light coming in from the window behind him.  Across the delicate skin of his cheek, the pale light shows the deep purple of the shadows resting underneath Cas’s dark, sooty lashes. Cas’s eyes are wide and pale like starlight against the contrast. He blinks owlishly up at Dean, the dazed fog slowly clearing from those eyes. “Hello, Dean,” Cas murmurs.

It comes out as a dry as a toad’s croak instead of Cas’s smooth rolling depths that Dean is used to. Cas’s hair is a complete mess, the soft, chocolate waves stirred up like Cas has been pulling at it restlessly all day. It’s a nest of deliciously curious tangles. And as he looks up at Dean, something in his gut clenches strangely, protectively over him.

“Cas, buddy. How long have you been here?” Dean asks, trying to remember seeing Cas in any of the common areas of their dorm between the dizzying drain of his own ridiculous study schedule.

Not liking what his memory was coming up with, Dean continues before Cas could even answer his first question. “Have you taken any breaks?”

“I texted you—” Cas trails off, breaking Dean’s stare to scratch absentmindedly at a clump of dried gesso that had gotten on the inside of his wrist. “I used the toilet?”

“Please tell me that wasn’t a question,” Dean demands. He feels like a dog with its fur ruffled although he can’t quite place his thumb on why. The image of Cas losing hours like that though— Dean tightens one of the already secured screws on Cas’s easel and feels a hot flush creep along his neck when Cas’s gaze returns to his at the roughened sound of his voice.

Cas just gives him a wry look in response.

Dean recognizes that face well enough; Cas is the most stubborn son of a bitch when he wants to be. He knows that he’s better off not finding out if that really was a question.  Restless and annoyed, he kicks the heel of his boot against the floor and gives in to the sigh that’s been lingering in the back of his throat. 

The thumb he throws over his shoulder is all careless pretense and doesn’t fool Cas at all, but Dean uses the action to temper the overbearing undertones to his voice as he urges, “C’mon, grab your stuff. We’re going to get something to eat.”

“You don’t have to take care of me, Dean,” Cas grumbles like he’s not the living definition of a hot mess sitting before Dean.

“That is where you are wrong, my friend. This tortured artist thing has gone on long enough.” It’s a low blow. Dean’s never met anyone more aggressively intolerant of the needless pretension that permeated the art world than Cas. Regardless, he still gleefully smirks and watches as the scowl to end all scowls crosses Cas’s features.

“Ass,” Cas says while rolling his eyes, but there is no heat behind it, as playful and insincere as Dean’s earlier jab.

Not saying anything else, Cas slides off the stool with far too much grace for someone that’s been hunched over it and brooding like a gothic gargoyle. He heads to the sinks set into the far wall of the studio. Dean follows him, eyes trailing him carefully and picking up on the stiffness of his gait. If he happens to get good view of Cas’s whole figure from behind, well he’s only watching out for his friend.

The sinks are set above cubbies that the students use to store their stuff clear away from all the paint splatter and what not, and Dean makes a beeline for the ugly tan parka that is stuffed into one of the spaces near the bottom. As he grabs Cas’s stuff for him, he watches Cas try his best to wash the paint from his hands and underneath his nails. His clothes are a hopeless situation and his hair is nearly as bad. There is no getting rid of all of the paint from his dark strands, but Cas still vigorously combs his wet fingers through the strands.

Bright globs of paint are caught in odd spots like the place just under his ear, and Dean’s entire body thrums with the need to touch and help him. Sure that his touch would be unwelcome, he can only fidget as he unfolds himself from his crouch on the floor, keeping his hands fisted tightly under the clenched fabric of Cas’s coat and sweater.

Once Cas has done the best he can to clean up, he turns towards Dean expectantly. Dean pushes the bundle of Cas’s things towards him, watching in mute admiration as Cas stretches up to drag the worn, blue knit sweater over his head.

“Alright, Dean. Lead the way.” Cas says, intently peering at him under wet, ruffled curls.

Dean quickly leads the way out of the studio before he does something stupid like fist the ends of the sweater snug over Cas’s hips and bring him close. Cas falls into step beside him. And as they walk out of the Fine Arts building, Dean resolutely focuses on pulling his gloves out of his back pocket and shoving them on so that he doesn’t have to watch the tragedy that is Cas getting swallowing by his beige monstrosity of a coat.

They slip outside into the frigid December evening, watching their warm breaths turn into billowing wisps of white. Dean instantly feels his cheeks and nose sting at the bite of air that greets him, and sets a fast pace through the quad in response.

Trying to further distract himself from the cold, he turns to Cas and asks, “So what was that about? I mean I’ve seen you in the studio before but—” he watches his words swirl white around them for a beat, “never like that, buddy.”

“I was just,” Cas starts and then stops, wrinkling his red, frost-kissed nose in thought, “I guess you could say that my mind wandered while I was figuring out how that piece will fit into this series I have to submit for my final project.” 

He shoots Dean a calming smile and confesses, “Although I probably could do with some sleep too.”  

Dean barks out a laugh and murmurs a soft, “Understatement.”

They wander around for a bit, crunching through snow that has yet to be shoveled to the sides of the walkways and letting the brisk cold of it all energize them. Well, at least that was Dean’s intention when he headed out towards their go-to burger joint in a slightly roundabout way.

Soon enough, Cas starts stomping through the snow with bitter aggression, so Dean’s not surprised when Cas finally clears his throat and says, “Do you have a place in mind, or are we just going to walk around aimlessly in this frozen tundra?”

Dean side steps to nudge him with his shoulder.

“Hey!” He exclaims, biting his lip to hide his grin. “A little appreciation for the person trying to feed and water you. Not to mention that I’m the only one who’s preventing you from dying in the studio and becoming a campus legend.”

Dean turns around and runs backward until he is directly in front of Cas, throwing his hands out and wriggling his eyebrows dramatically. “Behold the great spirit Castiel here to haunt the art students of Camden Hall for all eternity.”

Cas squints at him before completely ignoring his joke and taking wide steps to walk around Dean. “It’s cold,” he complains, bringing his bare fingers up to his lips to blow on them. The action is pointless because any heat from Cas’s body instantly drops in temperature as it escapes into the night.

Dean trots up to him and manages to catch Cas, adorably, glaring down at his cold hands crossly as if their refusal to get magically warm was a personal betrayal.

“Well no one told you to forget your gloves,” He scolds, though he knows he shouldn’t. It only serves to needlessly change the mood between them. He can’t help but admit that the nagging itchiness under his skin is worry; the very real knowledge of how neglectful Cas could be with himself makes the cold air settle heavy in his lungs. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean takes in how the bright yellow gleam of the street lanterns casts Cas in shining warm ambers opposed to the white and blues of the quad and looks away quickly at the sight.

Solemnly Cas says, “I was distracted. Like I said, this series is taking a lot more time than I had initially anticipated. The way the pieces fit, the color values and composition of it, it is as if it keeps escaping me. I find it draining to say the least.”

“C’mere. Let me see your hands.” Dean reaches out and tugs on that god forsaken parka, pulling Cas until he’s brushing close and unsure in front of him. He wraps his fingers around Cas’s, folding those deft hands neatly into his own. It is shocking, how icy they feel through the fabric of his gloves. He holds his tongue against the gruff words that want to force their way out. Stops himself from shaking Cas for being stubborn and stupid and not mentioning that he didn’t have gloves earlier.

Instead he cradles them gently in his own and brings them right up to his lips, trapping the hot air from his mouth in the pocket of warmth his gloves have created. When he finally looks into Cas’s eyes, they are dark and half-lidded. Dean keeps rubbing Cas’s freezing hands between his palms, but he can’t seem to look away from that gaze. Something hot, tingling, and breathless shoots up his spine. And he’s helpless to the wayward thoughts that whisper how cute Cas looks, red-nosed and grumpy and pliant under Dean’s movements.

Dean darts his eyes down to their hands, wondering at the sight and feeling of Cas’s hand in his even if they are separated by his gloves. Suddenly, he flushes harder than he did at the studio as it occurs to him that keeping Cas’s hands warm until they get to the burger joint would be easy enough.

He clears his throat and takes a moment to let go of Cas. Dean tugs off one of his gloves and slips it onto Cas’s right hand.

Cas’s fingers are long and nimble, not exactly delicate, but Dean’s gloves are already stretched out from frequent use and the stockiness of his fingers, so the glove is a little loose. It looks so good on him regardless, Dean thinks, watching Cas flex his right hand and stare at it contemplatively.

 Cas's tone is cautious when he asks, “Dean?”  

He doesn’t really have anything to say. Not when his next action is to entwine his newly bare hand with Cas’s left and stuff them into the fur-lined pocket of his leather jacket. Dean revels in the feeling of Cas’s palm, dry from paint and washing frequently. He keeps his gaze trained on his pocket for a second, wishing that he could see through the fabric. Dean thinks that maybe the sight of it might look as right and perfect as it feels.

When he locks eyes with Cas again, forcing himself to finally look up, Cas’s irises are still dark and filled with something Dean’s not sure he can admit he wants, but they are wide now. Blinking rapidly and searching Dean’s face, Cas looks a little stunned. His mouth is gaping, a red slash in the yellow-blue-white of the quad walkway.

Dean knows he must be blushing furiously because he can see the matching redness suffusing Cas’s cheeks. Cas who is hardly ever ruffled, let alone disarmed to the point of blushing.

He tells himself it’s only the weather beating against their sensitive skin that’s causing all this red, and he determinedly continues on the path while tugging Cas along.

“Dean?” He asks again, the pitch of his words high and thin.

“Gotta get to Donna’s before it closes if we want to actually eat something decent tonight, Cas,” Dean mumbles. He thanks whatever shock or frigid stupor that has Cas at least following despite Dean holding his hand _of all the fucking dumb things._

He risks a peak at Cas and has to double take, his blood rushing to all sorts of awkward places.

Cas’s eyes are nearly closed, half-moons of happiness, and he curls the fingers of his gloved hand against this tiny secret smile.

His voice sounds almost shy when he says, “Thank you, Dean.”

And Dean nearly bites through his lip at the sudden sting in his eyes, unable to do anything except squeeze Cas’s hand tightly in response.

_

The next day, when Dean makes sure to steal Cas away from the studio before he’s too busted up to remember the last time he ate, Dean doesn’t comment on the lack of gloves once again. He breathes a deep steadying breath, his heart pounding in his ears, and slides one glove over Cas’s hand, gently blows warm air over the tips of Cas’s fingers, and folds Cas’s other hand into his firm grip.

The clever smile that turns the corners of Cas’s lips says everything Dean needs it to say, and he’s giddy with the hope that flutters in his stomach.

Before he can manage to tuck their tangled hands into his coat, Cas rocks forward on his toes and reaches up to curl his palm around Dean’s neck.

This time his thank you isn’t shy or hesitant at all, but a soft and warm and heady kiss that leaves Dean dizzy with its promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all are having a great yuletide! Crossposted from [my tumblr.](http://www.heavenlymoonbeam.tumblr.com)


End file.
